When one looks at the phenomenon of declining handicrafts either in terms of the impact of modern technology or in terms of the onslaught of imperialism, India and Indonesia are obvious cases to examine in relation to the nineteenth century. For India there is a well developed literature, much of t i of contemporary nineteenth and early twentieth century vintage; the literature for Indonesia, however, appears somewhat thin in comparison. On closer examination there appear to be many questions of a common nature raised by the literature on the two countries and potentially fruitful issues awaiting investigation in a comparative perspective. To illustrate these possibilities and to stimulate discussion I attempt in this paper to draw upon some work I am doing on two major Indian handicraft industries, textiles and rice processing, and relate some findings of mine and of others to what has been done (or can be done) on these industries in Indonesia.

Between 1947 and early 1952, the International Refugee Organization (IRO), which was established within the framework of the United Nations to “solve” the so-called European refugee problem after the end of the Second World War, resettled one million European refugees—victims of Nazism as well as East European refugees who escaped the Red Army—all over the world. The IRO's resettlement project is regarded as a blueprint for the establishment of the postwar international migration regime, and it was the predecessor of later initiatives such as the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR).

In this article I argue that the IRO's history as well as the history of the migration regime after the Second World War has, thus far, mainly been written from the perspective of U.S. American and European history. Northern nations are considered agents in this history, while southern countries are considered as passive “destinations.” In the case of Venezuela, the article argues that the Global South's active role in the migration regime must be taken into consideration to understand postwar migration. From the perspective of a connective approach to global history, it shows how Venezuela, as a political agent, was involved in shaping the migration regime; how it perceived itself as an agent within that regime; and how it intervened on a small scale to shape its form and function.

This article is a response to Sebastian Prange's essay in Itinerario 41, no. 1 (2017): 151–173 wherein he presented a ‘virtually unknown manuscript’ on the Portuguese arrival in India as an Indian voice, unheard in the existing historiography. Prange had consulted the English translation of a Malayalam text by John Wye, that the former had assumed to be lost. However its original palm-leaf manuscript (ōla) is kept at the British Library. This ōla, entitled Kēraḷa Varttamānam, brings to light some remarkable omissions and a few discrepancies in Wye's translation. Closely reading different manuscripts in Malayalam, Arabic, and English I argue that this ōla is in fact a translation of a sixteenth-century Arabic text, Tuḥfat al-mujāhidīn, well known among scholars of its place and period. Taking it a step ahead, I argue that the very existence of this text points towards the cross-cultural and cross-linguistic interactions between the Arabic and Malayalam spheres of premodern Malabar. The ōla demonstrates one of the first instances of Malayalam literature's engagement with a secular and historical theme as the arrival of the Portuguese. In addition, Malayalam works such as Kēraḷōlpatti and Kēraḷa-paḻama are clear voices from Malabar on the Portuguese arrival and consequent episodes.

When, early in August 1538, the lifeless bodies of the Sultan 'Âmir ibn Dâwûd and six of his confidants, by order of Sulaymân Bâshâ al-Khâdim, swung from the mainyard of the Turkish Admiral's galley for three days, not only the fate of the Tâhirid dynasty hung by a thread, but also that of the city of Aden. Afterwards, the Ottoman conquerors transformed this prospering port, a junction in the commercial network encompassing the Indian Ocean, into a military bastion. Merchants were driven away by soldiers. The entry to the Red Sea was cordoned off by guns for Portuguese intruders.

In Steinkopf, a former coloured Reserve in the Northern Cape Province, the Nederduitse Gereformeerde Sendingkerk (NGS; Dutch Reformed Mission Church), a former sub-branch of the Nederduitse Gereformeerde Kerk (NGK; Dutch Reformed Church) forged a legitimate public space for the expression of Nama identity in the 1960s. The legitimisation of aboriginal identity was not accidental, but very much an expression of apartheid policies of the day. I hope to demonstrate both the content and the consequences of this particular episode in Steinkopf, and thereby contribute to an understanding of the links between a crumbling capitalist infrastructure and the ideological efforts to reinforce that infrastructure through processes of ethnic strengthening. My claim is that the NGK played an ideological role supporting the capitalist interests as it strengthened the super-structural pillars of the segregation and apartheid eras.

Just before midnight on 10 November 1975 Portugal's high commissioner in Angola, along with the last remnants of the Portuguese army in Africa, embarked for Lisbon. Earlier in the day he had formally transferred sovereignty not to a successor government but to ‘the Angolan people’, a formulation which permitted Portugal to ‘decolonise’ without taking sides in the civil war which was at that time reaching its climax in Angola. Immediately the perfunctory ceremony in Luanda ended, the Portuguese officials left at speed for the harbour and the relative safety of their ships which departed immediately. Thus ended Portugal's 500-year empire in Africa. It is tempting to see Portugal's indecorous withdrawal from Angola as an emblematic climax to an increasingly destructive relationship with the former jewel in its African crown. In this view, the chaotic circumstances of Angola's road to independence had brought Portugal's own fragile and unstable post-revolutionary state to the point of destruction. Yet a quite different view can be proposed. The political and diplomatic challenges thrown down by the Angolan crisis might be seen, on the contrary, to have had a ‘disciplining’ effect on a revolutionary process in Portugal which was threatening to spin out of control as a result of its own internal pressures. Arguably, rather than exacerbating these pressures, the demands of events in Angola had a unifying effect on an otherwise fragmenting state.

Where do episodes of colonising failure fit into the historiography of European expansion? Almost by definition, this field, especially those aspects of it concerned with colonial social formation, privileges the study of those colonies which became established. Nor does an enquiry into failure have much to offer to those who have adopted the increasingly popular “Atlantic” perspective on European overseas activity. The students in this school of thought stress the importance of the commercial and social links between European-American settlements, as well as with Africa and Europe. These were forged through the unprecedented movement of people and commodities generated by early modern overseas activity, especially across the Atlantic Ocean. These connections and the corresponding mingling of peoples from four continents constitute the key elements in the development of “modernity” and the creation of a manifestly new world.

At the close of the nineteenth century, that is on the eve of colonial rule in Igboland, Igbo metal industry was flourishing. Production had attained a high level in the range and the quality of output. The output included agricultural equipment, traps and guns as well as title insignia and ornaments, mosdy made of copper and brass. The demand for die smiths' products were widespread and seemingly insatiable. To serve the need of dieir widely dispersed customers and patrons, Igbo smiths from Abiriba, Agulu Amokwe, Agulu Umana, Awka, and Nkwere undertook regular tours of parts of soudi-eastern Nigeria and even beyond – up to die Niger-Benue confluence area; past die Edo country to Ondo Yorubaland; and to the Bamenda district of die Cameroons. The superiority of Igbo metalworking led, in some of these places, to the demise of the local industry.

Perhaps one of the saddest consequences of the demise of traditional Khoikhoi societies during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is the loss of their languages. Contemporary reports by visitors abound with references to how difficult the Khoi language was to learn, while at the same time commending the Khoikhoi for their ability to learn European languages. By about 1700, only half a century after Dutch colonisation, most Khoikhoi living in the colonised areas of the Western Cape could speak some form of Dutch in addition to their own language. However, the rapid spread of European settlers deeper into the interior, on the one hand, and the acculturation of the Khoikhoi and their inclusion in the colonial polity and economy, on the other hand, meant that by the end of the eighteenth century Khoi was spoken only on the fringes of the Cape colony. Cape Khoi was increasingly replaced by (a form of) Dutch as the first language of the native inhabitants of the Cape. Thus, on his tour of Southern Africa in 1803-1806, Heinrich Lichtenstein could observe that ‘on the borders alone are some Hottentots to be found who speak their own lariguage; but among them several foreign words are introduced, spoken with the Hottentot accent and snort’. Cape Khoi was by this stage rapidly dying out.

Using the expression ‘late-colonial State’ obviously induces not only a chronological differentiation, but also some kind of specific institution. Is it possible to show that colonialism changed courses at an identifiable moment in time? If one observes the realities of the colonial presence in French Occidental Africa (Afrique Occidentale Française: AOF), and more particularly in the nomadic zone, a superficial glance could make one think the opposite is true. Nomads of the AOF and the area of land they travel are hardly obvious examples of ‘the colonial development’. The conquest of the Saharan areas was carried out with difficulty, hindered by immeasurable distances, the logistic difficulties of mounting and supply, the ignorance of the routes and wells, and especially the resistance to the French colonial regime from the Moorish and Tuareg nomads. The French managed to impose a lasting peace only after the Tuareg revolts of 1916 and 1917, after the fall of Djanet in the early 1920s, and finally after the pacification at the beginning of the 1930s of the last pockets of Moorish ‘dissidence’, putting an end to the raids against colonial establishments along the Niger river and in Adrar des Ifoghas. French soldiers and administrators initially held a certain mistrust towards the turbulent nomads. This feeling, combined with the apparent economic uselessness of the huge desert spaces they inhabited, makes it possible to understand that the essential efforts of colonial France were concentrated on military aspects and on keeping law and order within the major strategic routes connecting the southern and northern African possessions through the Sahara; routes that in these areas represented creations of major infrastructure.

This article posits that friendship has been a particularly fertile and creative category against the backdrop of imperial expansion and consolidation in the Himalayas. As a small but strategically perceived sovereign Himalayan country, Bhutan's history through the last centuries has been marked simultaneously by imperial and post-colonial asymmetries of power. The term “friendship” is deployed as a key diplomatic category in Bhutan's most significant relationship, that with its much larger neighbour India. However, the origin of this friendship is always traced back to the mid-twentieth-century post-colonial period. In contradistinction to this, I constellate a much longer history of this friendship with a special focus on the landmark 1910 Treaty of Punakha between Bhutan and Britain, which was a key turning point in Bhutan's relations with its southern neighbour (British India at the time). Scholars typically state as a matter of fact that in the year 1910, with the initiative of Political Officer Charles Bell, a treaty was signed between Britain and Bhutan that placed Bhutan's external relations under the guidance of Britain. This present work is situated within the oeuvre of critically rereading imperial sources and evaluating their historical legacies, and is the first detailed scholarly analysis of why this treaty was significant and how it came to be signed. I identify the factors that were at work in how and why the 1910 friendship treaty was realised for imperial British purposes—the interpersonal friendships fostered by the British Political Officers; the threat of China as an Other; and the representation of material and ideational advantages from associating with an imperial power. In making this argument, I analyse the role played by the vocabulary of friendship and draw upon primary archival sources to illustrate the factors that were at work as well as the dissonance between the archival and public rationales provided by Political Officer Bell. The 1910 treaty was signed at a watershed moment after the then-recent installation of a monarchy in Bhutan in 1907, and against the great game backdrop of Qing activities in Tibet and British interests in the region; throughout the twentieth century, the impact of this friendship treaty was of paramount significance, and its shadow continues into the twenty-first century.

With the expansion of Western power from the seventeenth century onward, many Asian countries were confronted with difficult political and economic problems in their relations with Europe. In several countries in Asia, in order to suppress Western cultural influences within their own nations, governments often employed foreigners as interpreters for their own diplomacy and trade with Europeans, with some governments even prohibiting their people from learning foreign languages.

But, in the case of Japan, interpreters played a crucial role in both the study of the Dutch language and the integration of Western knowledge during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It seems that early-modern Japanese interpreters were quite different from the interpreters of Western languages in other countries in Asia, as in Nagasaki interpreters of the Dutch language were shogunate-appointed Japanese nationals.

Here I will examine and compare several aspects of the Chinese pidgin-English interpreters at Canton and the Japanese Dutch-language interpreters at Nagasaki, in particular their origins, incomes, duties, learning, and businesses. Through this examination I will demonstrate how the so-called Westernisation processes adopted in China and Japan were actually reflected in and represented by the different models of foreign trade at the ports of Canton and Nagasaki.